bulimia is the new pink
by ohio
Summary: “James, can you please take him home?” Wilson nodded, too drained to remain frustrated with the situation as he continued to stroke the curved back of his friend despite the silence that now came from him as the retching had subsided.
1. therapy in blue doesn't do you justice

"My shirt, it doesn't fit." The thumping of the bass line was already pouring from speakers that surrounded the small group of musicians and friends that hung behind thick velvet curtains in the New Jersey club. Heartbeats were pulsating like clocks so profusely beyond the protective shells of ribcages. Excitement was tactile and fingertips were stretching for it; hundreds of fingertips that pushed against one another in the multitudes of fans that stood beneath the stage lights, roaring in anticipation. The instruments were gleaming under the wandering spotlight; introductory harmonies beginning to lilt as a sign that the show was ready to start.

"My shirt, it doesn't fit!" one of the musicians repeated, eyes suddenly appearing swollen and red. The crowd was relentless, screaming themselves hoarse now. Forty dollars a ticket – they wanted their money put to use. They craved the lyrics to thrum beautifully from microphones and melodiously intoxicated lips. "Connyr, calm down. Your shirt fits _fine_. Just go out and do the show and when you're done we'll get you another one, all right?" the youngest of the girls assured as she grabbed his hands which had begun to tug and tatter the seams along the bottom of a vintage polo. Lines and crevices of anxiety were lining his countenance, not to mention the faces of his band mates. Each was a fourth of a well marketed media sensation. It was as though each were a separate piece of a necessary bridge and without even one, the show crumbled into dust. Connyr squirmed about, clambering free of the girl's clutch as he began to scrunch fingertips against the material of his baseball cap rigorously.

"Connyr, cut the shit," muttered a few from the surrounding group. The lights were dim and the curtains were beginning to sway from the momentum of the mass of bodies just outside their reach. Chanting; they were chanting the band's name religiously now as though they could not wait any longer – not a simple second for they were about to destruct. Unable to handle the jeers and resounding chorus of desperation the tallest of the musicians grabbed the remainder of the group and literally dragged them across the wooden stage; past the duct tape markings and chipped amps. The shouts became deafening at such close range. There was no other sound but the ringing in one's ears, a sensation that dribbled all the way to their toenails. Eyes alight with anger and self consciousness, Connyr finally took his place at the front of the stage – front and center, behind the sticker painted microphone stand. Beads of sweat were already slipping down his cheekbones like strands of iridescent pearls.

"Let's fucking rock and roll." Timid though he may be, when that drum began to pound like a headache that had become all too familiar, he was an animal on that stage. Rushing about, emptying his soul to a throng of strangers as they sang along in unison, pushing against one another in a tangled web of fury and delight. It was about feeling alive, feeling liberated, feeling unique, feeling destructive – feeling anything. Hollywood had slowly smothered emotion and there was almost a sense of gloom and despondency that showed in his face that night. He just wanted to envelop himself in the music, escape even himself but that was damn near impossible – his pulse was starting to slow. Four songs in and the adrenaline was erasing itself completely the way winter vanished all stars in the sky.

The crowd watched as Connyr Rosel, their musical hero of a punk rock nation, began to deteriorate. He appeared sluggish but frightfully alert; the microphone still pressed against suddenly ashen lips as he mumbled incoherently, hands motioning sporadically. "- my shirt," he whimpered miserably once more before darting off stage in an uncoordinated manner, lollygagging each step. The speakers exploded with feedback as the microphone crashed against the stage, a loud whine filling the club's hall as the crowd retracted and quickly shielded their ears.

As he reached the opening between those crunched and splendid curtains, dozens of hands and arms groped about; grabbing him fiercely and seating him on the ground immediately. "_Otley!_" Connyr wailed, eyes darting about for the young girl he'd spoken with right before the show had began. "Otley, it _doesn't_ fit," his voice was warbling unsteadily now and reservoirs of plump, salty tears were streaming from lash to chin. The small girl made her way through the multitude of concerned and frustrated bystanders, her brow furrowed and complexion practically translucent from fear itself. Chaotic dark strands of hair fell across her forehead and face as she quickly knelt beside the hysterical musician. She embraced him momentarily, placing a soft kiss against the bridge of his nose.

"Connyr, baby, you can't do this. I know you have serious anxiety but you have a show to do - a job to do. I thought the therapy was helping," she whispered with concern as she stroked the epidermis of his palm, hoping to soothe him in some faint way. Connyr had been in therapy for the past seven years for a variety of matters. The most significant, however, had been issues dealing with self image and body confidence as well as common bouts of stage fright and general anxiety. At twenty four, he wasn't exactly the epitome of health. Living on the road – rather living on one drive thru's burger and fries to another's, would take its toll on anyone. There had been nights of sobbing and mirrors smashed with fingertips bandaged across the entire surface. She could vaguely recall family members stepping in when it became known to their attention that he couldn't even shower without a shirt on, he had become too self conscious. Connyr wasn't even that overweight, but in such an industry where image is so involved it revolved in a hideous cycle of ignorance and obsession. He was chubby no doubt, however certainly nothing that called for such dramatics. But that had been so long ago, nearly two years previous – and Otley had thought it had been a bridge burned.

"No, you're not listening," Connyr argued fervently as he gripped Otley's wrists tightly. His features were wincing as though something was causing him extreme pain and his speech had turned languid. "My shirt – this shirt, it fit this morning. My shirt doesn't fit. I only had a sandwich today, okay? _Okay, Otley? My shirt does not fit._" Words and syllables were becoming more and more impaired and dulled by the second. Disgruntlement and irritation were taking over as he found it harder to communicate, a desperation that was leaping from his lungs now to the point where they ached from trying so hard. "Look," he flared as he straightened his knees at once to stand, proving that in fact what he had been saying was true. The fabric was hanging slightly above his waistline, an inch or two of his belly poking through. "My shirt does not fit." It was beginning to feel like a broken record, starting and stopping – starting and stopping. His heart; it was doing the same – or so it felt. _Beating, dead, beating, dead, beating, dead, beating, racing, dead, beating, racing, dead, racing._

"Connyr -," Otley interjected as her eyes widened at once but Connyr interrupted without hesitance.

"No, no! I know what you're going to say. I'm not crazy." His body was starting to seize with shudders of tears so intensely that he was unable to hear the disappointment from the crowd outside. The band had continued to play but it was clear that they felt cheated.

"_Connyr!_" Otley exclaimed once more, her fingertips pushing at the belt of his jeans and the edge of the suddenly smaller polo shirt; exploring with scared interest. "_Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh, oh holy shit._" Incapable of speech, the small girl stared intently horrified of what was in front of her. Distended and practically inhuman, Connyr Rosel's abdomen was now in plain sight of the entire entourage that had circled him the moment he crashed backstage and now they understood why; why he had loped away from the adoration and screams of those who paid his paycheck and made him famous, why he was crying mercilessly and tugging so feverishly on the brim of his baseball cap with jitters and energy all the while sweating bullets like a fiend. It was swollen and gray, the skin around it murky and sickly looking and dull blue veins protruded so close to the surface that it seemed sure they could flee at any moment from his body.

Astonished, perhaps overwhelmed by the situation or whatever had plagued him, he quickly fell back onto the floor as he wailed like an adolescent, cradling his face with his hands. "_Baby._" He was writhing about now, twitching relentlessly as white trails of foam leaked from his pink lips in rapid succession. "Somebody call a goddamn ambulance! What the hell are you all waiting for? Call them now!" Otley shouted over her shoulder with trepidation as she clasped her hands over his. His voice was hardly audible now to anyone but her. "_Baby, I feel sick. I think - "_ Unable to finish his thought, Connyr Rosel, musician extraordinaire, gave a slight jerk of the elbow and with no warning at all slipped out of consciousness. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital suddenly had itself a brand spanking new and _certainly_ unusual patient.


	2. the cow jumped over the moon

"Drugs," House muttered curtly as Lisa Cuddy handed him an overstuffed manila folder. "All rock stars are on drugs, especially the kind that like to dress up all pretty and try on girls' jeans to be cool. I never got that. Are they trying to entice me with their feminine lack of an ass? I like ass."

"Well you definitely are an ass so at least you're keeping it all around the same region of the body." Cuddy smirked as the corners of her lips flowered upwards, the smooth peach shade of lipstick she wore crinkling along her flesh. It was always about banter with House. There were no boundaries, no limits. It was every man for himself and nothing was ever a fair fight.

"I don't understand why you'd even think to waste my time with something so obvious," House argued gruffly as he moved the pads of his fingertips against the bristle of his stubble infused chin. A young boy shot past, barreling through the small amount of space between his left foot and the cane and he wobbled slightly at the sudden motion. House opened his mouth to shout something at the child but caught that dangerous flicker in his boss' eyes – a defiant warning that should he do what Cuddy was sure he was about to do, his ass was on the line. Noticeably defeated House gave a tiny little sigh and once more flipped through the stacks of medical documents protruding from his clutches. "Scratch that," he continued. "I know _why_ it is you want me to waste my time with this kid since if there is actually something wrong and the great doctor doesn't fix him the world will be deprived of lyrics and songs about bleeding hearts and doomed relationships. What I don't understand is why you couldn't just give the case to Cameron or even Foreman. Did you even take a look at this kid's mental file? You really think I should be the one giving him advice?"

"You can complain all you want House, the case is still yours. If it is drugs then that's great because considering what's going on with this kid right now that would be the least of our worries. Take some hair and give him some promethazine while you're waiting for the results. I don't want to be slapped with a law suit that we let this kid vomit so long his voice got ruined."

House gripped at the head of his cane, lines of flesh folding just along the creases of his eyes as he stared blankly ahead. "I'm sorry," he apologized in a perfectly sardonic tone. "I didn't hear a word you said. I was too busy watching your breasts trying to escape from that pathetic excuse for a shirt." His face was lit with boyish mischievousness as he flashed a halfway sort of grin. "Clearly you have yet to determine the line between your wardrobe for your daily profession and your nighttime one. By the way, Wilson mentioned he saw you dropping quite a handful at dinner the other night. The streets must be treating you wonderfully."

Cuddy grimaced, though amused, as she responded haughtily. "A lot better than you do." It was odd, but despite there being hundreds of people milling around – millions of sounds taking place and buzzing in and out of their consciousness, it always felt as though only the two of them were there. Though she would never admit it, often her repartee with House was the most alluring thing throughout her days crammed of scheduling, bills, and calls between life and death. In a way, it was almost reassuring to know that another person was as blind to life as she was – preferring the hospital to nights on the town with good friends. "Now, go?"

"Aye aye cap-tit, I mean captain." Obviously pleased with himself, House feigned a regal bow, the rubber soles of his bright red tennis shoes squeaking softly against the linoleum floor. Cuddy merely watched, no longer fazed by his blunt and often strange nature.

"If you ever fall in love House, make sure you let me know. I'll want to see what she's like before you turn her crazy."

"To be fair, she'll probably already be crazy."

Cuddy nodded with a slight turn of a smile. "Fair enough. Now go do your job."

- - -

"How long have you two been together?" Cameron asked as she gave the small bag of saline a little flick with the back of her delicate knuckles. Her wispy brunette locks were rolled tightly together in the form of a bun on the top of her head, though a few strands had come astray along the sides of her neck.

"Almost ten years," Connyr replied with the slightest of cringes as the cold liquid dripped into his veins.

"You'll get used to it," Cameron assured him. "In a few minutes you won't even notice it anymore."

"Okay. Thanks," Connyr mumbled uncomfortably, scratching at the coarse gown they had given him. It was taught against the shape of his frame, clearly too small a size. "Can I have my clothes back? I don't really like this."

"You look as beautiful as ever," Otley interjected swiftly. She was curled up against his side atop the bed, holding a bag of ice chips in both hands – every now and then placing one along the tip of Connyr's blanching tongue. "And we've only been officially dating for about three years but we were best friends for all the rest."

"What made you realize you wanted to be together?"

"Did you give me a bigger bed because I'm fat?" Connyr interrupted, plainly in a state of distress. He was shaking from his shoulders all the way down to the brittle edge of his fingernails. "You thought I would break one of the regular beds, didn't you? I mean this is where you put those people that come in and are just too big for the normal bed. I've heard about it. I heard you sometimes have to send people to the zoo for tests because they're so fat." The tremor in his voice shook like earthquakes of centuries and his frightened eyes were welling with inevitable sobs. Cameron seemed frozen – too taken aback by the rupture of erratic thought that had just taken place.

"No – no," she stammered. "I wasn't trying to imply that at all. The ER just mentioned that you wanted to keep Otley close so I set it up so that you could have a bed where you could both fit. That's all, I swear."

Otley, however, had a different approach. Placing the soggy bag of melting forms of ice to the side, she hoisted herself up onto the crying boy, sitting herself atop his legs so that her face hovered directly above his. "Hey," she whispered with a caring smile as she gingerly began to stroke the length of his forehead. "Hey you there – look at me. Look at me, baby. _You_ are perfect and there is no one in the world more gorgeous to me than you. Take a deep breath." He did so, his body starting to calm though iridescent streams of tears were still coursing down the bridge of his nose.

"I'm so sorry," Cameron repeated though still shocked. Otley remained atop Connyr, continuing to touch his face – keeping unremitting contact.

"Baby its okay," Otley murmured. "You're sick. There's something wrong with your belly and the doctors are going to find out what. Nobody is going to send you to the zoo and I'll be here the entire time."

"I don't know. I think we _should_ send him to the zoo." Otley glanced up, surprised at the sudden sound of another voice.

"_What_?"

House pushed the clear glass of the door aside, shutting it as quietly as it had opened. The soothing clunk of the cane against the floor becoming repetitious as he made his way to Cameron's side. "Okay, okay maybe not the zoo. How about the aquarium? I'm sure the little fish could always use another little whale friend to play with," he said dryly as he thrust the manila folder he had been carrying atop Cameron's clipboard.

"He's not even that overweight for his height. Maybe fifteen pounds." Otley argued as though it would make any difference. "And he's beautiful. How could you say something like that?" Connyr began to bawl, running his hands through his fine hair anxiously as he rocked back and forth. Otley quickly removed herself from his lap and wrapped her frail arms around the suffering rock star.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that sweetheart. He's about as beautiful as a lump of clay," House snapped.

"Are you going somewhere with this?" Cameron demanded as she stared at House with disbelief. "I mean I know you love to torture patients but this is beyond your normal bastard behavior." Nurses were gathering around the outside of the room, Connyr's wails resounding loudly throughout the halls. He was scraping at the flesh of his arm in frustration, attacking himself bitterly as sobs became muddled with hiccups from lack of oxygen. "House, do something!" Otley seemed just as frantic, uselessly trying to placate Connyr's distress.

House casually sauntered over to the bed as though he was deaf to Connyr's screams, and reaching out a single hand to push against the young man's chest he uttered a single, breathless word. "Moo."

Connyr went silent, House's hand still against his gown and their gazes met. And without so much as another snivel, he arched his back and began to vomit just as House grabbed the empty bedpan from beneath the sheets - holding it steady in silence. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he did something Cameron had never seen him do – he reached out and smoothed down the sides of Connyr's hair as though he meant to comfort him. It was a brief yet undeniably honest gesture; something that House never did. With a sigh he shoved the bedpan into Cameron's grasp as Otley began to grab napkins from the side table, wiping away at Connyr's mouth. "Give that to Chase, tell him to run some tests and that his hair looks horrible today."

"Why did you do that? Just for a bedpan full of vomit?" Otley asked with anger in her voice as she lay against the pillows, wrapping her arms around Connyr as he rested his head in the crook of her shoulder and closed his eyes though tears were still spilling from them uncontrollably.

"I like making Chase earn his job," House replied with a sarcastic drawl as he unscrewed the top to his bottle of Vicodin, popping two into the bowels of his mouth and swallowing quickly. Using his cane to ease himself up, he shot Cameron an aggravated stare. "Why are you still here? Chase – vomit – now." Cameron scurried away. "Don't forget the part about bad hair," House called after her as he began to follow the direction in which she had left.

"That's it?" Otley asked incredulously. House paused at the glass door and gave a short, simple nod.

"That's it."


	3. ebay for the soul

"Oh my gosh, you've _got _to be kidding me. What am I supposed to do? Just dig around for buried treasure?" Chase couldn't hold back the look of disgust as Cameron handed him the bedpan.

Cameron shrugged, once. "House told me to pass it on along with some degrading message about your hair which by the way, I think looks fine." Almost instinctively Chase began to pat the back of his head as though checking to make sure not a single piece was out of place. "Don't be so vain," Cameron said with a tone of subtle mockery. "You know, life isn't just about looking good or showing people that we have the best wardrobe out of everybody. It's about people and their thoughts and the emotions our society can feel. And – you're not even listening to me right now," her voice drowned off as it became apparent Chase was still focused on the spread of his hairline. "Men," she muttered under her breath. "You're all arrogant bastards." And with a slight shake of her head, she was gone.

- - -

"You're a _jerk_," Otley announced as she bristled into House's office. He was seated behind the desk, legs propped atop a pile of what she assumed were supposed to be important documents – treated with respect, fingertips twitchy against the colorful buttons of a videogame.

"Look just because I may have harassed your little friend doesn't make me a jerk," House replied. His eyes never left the game. Every now and then he would unconsciously inhale with a slight groan. "Now see," he said as he gave the game a sharp rap with the back of his knuckles as though for emphasis. "This is exactly what's wrong with the entertainment for today's youth. When my little samurai dies it's by an anvil or an evil woman with unnaturally large breasts – or guns. But everybody knows that's not how they would really die; the whole hari-kari process. I mean where is the history? Kids today, it's all space aliens and mutants. Whatever happened to good old fashioned suicide?"

"First of all, you did more than harass. You probably undid about four years of therapy right there. Secondly, I find it a little sad to see a grown man complaining about a game for today's youth when you are much closer to being six feet under than a part of that category." House watched as she stood her ground, tiny as she was. Somebody had obviously given her clothes to borrow, perhaps from the lost and found, as she was now dressed in a pair of denim shorts, the edges frayed over time and cut rather small though on someone so petite it was hardly noticeable. She wore a series of tops, layered to clearly what was considered a style among the rich and the famous. It always boggled his mind that people with money would pay so much to look so damn poor.

Otley paused, suddenly noticing the doctor's shift in focus. "Are you staring at my chest?" she murmured fiercely. It was true, his eyes had been lilting in that general direction. The tops she had chosen were clearly meant for children and despite her rather gaunt stature her chest was certainly close to being exposed. And House thought Cuddy wore revealing shirts! "Look I know that I'm absolutely adorable but let's not stray from the fact that I'm completely pissed."

"Which makes you all the more adorable," House concurred as he set his game down at last. Hands moving freely he once more unscrewed the top of his Vicodin bottle. Two smooth pills slid perfectly down the back of his throat – it was relief.

"Is that so?" Otley's brow rose slightly as she licked the pink muscle of her lips absently.

"I do have eyes, you know." House fought a grimace as a sharp pang electrified throughout his stomach momentarily, but Otley was not fooled in the least.

"You should really have food when you take those," she pointed out. "In fact," she said as she began to root through the contents of the purse she had slung over her dainty left shoulder. "Here." Producing half a sandwich in a plastic bag she tossed her findings effortlessly over towards House which he caught without the slightest show of emotion. The room was silent for a minute as House began to un-wrap the day old bologna and cheese. "You're welcome."

"Yeah I do my best not to thank people. It creates expectations I don't know if I can keep."

"Wow," Otley said in wonderment. "Just wow. You really think you are just so special don't you? I mean here you are - the diagnostician. You can figure everybody out just by a simple conversation or maybe even just a glance. Hell, you probably think you've got me fucking figured out. You revel in the fact that people keep you at a distance because you think it makes you somebody because you're just too afraid to be yourself. No you have to be bigger than that or else there isn't anything worth being. Well let me tell you something," she continued as she trailed her fingertips through the dust that lined the surfaced of his desk, creating elegant patterns. She was moving closer to him and he just watched in silence; chewing and chewing. "I've spent the past few years of my life meeting new people every single day. I've met people who look like they would snap your baby's neck in half but in reality they love have tea parties with their friends. I've trusted just about everyone and learned to trust just about no one. _Nobody_ likes me House," she whispered with steely collectiveness. "I'm the reason girls can't live out their fantasies with Connyr. They write me death threats. They write stories online about me being in car accidents or having cancer just so they can create their own little character to come in and save the day. It's scary shit. But over the years I've come to read people like the words of a book. And do you know what?"

House swallowed, actually listening as the diminutive girl inched all the more closer. It was bizarre the way she was entrancing him with simple words, or perhaps it was the way she was moving her body; flirtatiously. The room was filled with simple sunlight, strands peeking through the blinds as they danced across her epidermis in geometrical patterns. "What?"

"I bet that I can read people better than you." House's eyes were transfixed dully upon her own, the sandwich still lolling about against his tongue. "I bet there are secrets you don't know about those closest to you that I could unravel in a matter of days. You sit there and pride yourself so much on having this gift but you don't even know what it is. Yeah so, congratulations – you save lives and I know who not to give my phone number to. Obviously in the end everything points to your victory but there's more than analyzing patients. I guarantee you that by the time Connyr is released, I'll know more about you than anybody else in this entire building."

"Fine," House said at last. "You're on. At the end of all of this we'll see which one of us figured the most out about one another. And I expect there to be money when I win."

Otley paused, frowning almost childishly. "I don't have a lot of money. Connyr's the rockstar not me."

"Fine, get your boyfriend to sign a picture before he leaves. I hear they sell for quite a bit on E-Bay. It must be hard to come across."

"Connyr's got anxiety issues. He doesn't hang around after a show to greet the fans like the others do. Sometimes if they catch him on a good day they'll get lucky but that's maybe happened once or twice in the past year." Staring down at her nails, black polish chipping away, Otley went suddenly demure. "Do you think maybe you could let me stay with you tonight?" There was a naïve hesitance in her voice and before he could reject her plea she rushed to her conclusion. "It's just the nurses said I can't spend the night for security issues even though I'm his fucking girlfriend, and I know he'd give me the money to rent a hotel room but I haven't slept in a place alone for almost eight years. I don't even know if I could. I'll be really quiet, please."

House was stunned as the bold and defiant minx that had been sashaying about his office just minutes before crumpled into a terrified little girl. "Fame really fucks you people up, doesn't it?"

"I'm not famous," Otley reminded him though she certainly lived the lifestyle of hustle and bustle. " - but yeah, it does." House could not believe how lonely she appeared, standing there stripped of all her brash glory. It was as though she had spent her life protected by a throng of people, the constant stream of noise becoming comfort rather than moments to oneself.

"So let me get this straight. You march in here and call me a jerk and now you want a place to stay and I'm supposed to cave?"

"I'll get Connyr to sign a guitar too. You'll make more in a night on that thing then you would in a week of overtime," Otley offered hopefully.

"Fine. You can have the couch. Wilson's coming over for dinner," he motioned towards the direction of Wilson's office, "so make sure you're back here by seven so I don't forget to leave with you. And the remote controller is off limits. That's a man's toy," he droned with a hint of sarcasm.

"I don't care what it is you shove up your ass for shits and giggles, I won't touch a thing." Obviously overwhelmed with relief that she would not spend a night alone, she reached forward and wrapped her thin arms around the length of his neck, pressing a girlish kiss against his cheek. "_Thank you_."


	4. boys in skinny jeans rule music

"It helps if you talk about something else while we're running the tests," Foreman offered as he snapped the elastic of his surgical gloves firmly in place. There were assortments of spindling metal tools laid out on a table before Connyr's bed, a smooth blue cloth just beneath them. Tubes were literally crawling out of buckets and bags of all shapes and sizes and into his body, though by now he was numb to the sensation of the various liquids pumping dully through his small veins. Cameron was to Connyr's left, holding his hand tenderly as Chase (on his right) adjusted a few of the measurements on several of the machines.

"I don't really know what to talk about." The medicine had clearly been helping somewhat as his speech was now more cognitive – alert. He was able to hold a conversation now, though too ill to sit up on his own. About five stuffed pillows lay propped behind him, supporting his spine and neck as he watched with terrified fascination at all that surrounded him. "_Ow_," he winced as his fingertips gave a solid jerk, which Cameron did her best to hold still.

"Sorry about that," Foreman apologized. "I should've told you we started. Just take a few deep breaths for me and it'll be over before you know it and you can get some rest." Connyr's heart sped as he watched the clear pipes swell and fill with blood – his blood, scattering away from him.

"Why can't Otley be here for this?" Connyr whimpered with an obvious sense of confusion as he used his free hand to smooth back the fine whispers of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. He wanted to be watching them at all moments; yet at the same time his mind was shrieking at him to look away. Perhaps it was some perverse desire to stay in control in a situation where he was literally as powerless as a newborn child. "She wouldn't have been in the way. Maybe you could just call her in?"

"Apparently House took her home for dinner, Connyr. She'll be back in the morning and you can always call her when we're done. It's just a matter of safety for the both of you. For all we know Otley could be carrying the very germ that's making you sick and so we just need to keep you by yourself for a little bit," Chase assured him as he reached over the bed to hand Foreman a clean hand towel. "Alright Connyr, this part is going to hurt – so take a deep breath for me." Squeezing Cameron's hand in a furious clutch, Connyr sucked in the air around him, cheeks ballooning like a puffer fish as his cheeks flamed crimson. Quickly, Foreman slid the tube from the skin and immediately pressed the towel against the opening of the miniscule knick he had created to insert the instrument just minutes before.

"There's some strong disinfectant on there so it's going to sting," Cameron warned as she caught Chase watching her from across the bed. The corners of her lips morphed upwards into the faintest of smiles, lashes fluttering briefly as if in some secret language only the two of them could comprehend. Chase tilted his chin with a blasé nod, his own cheeks turning a girlish shade of pink and he swiftly looked away, busying himself with the machines once more.

"Okay, Connyr. We just need to do one more procedure and then ask you a few questions and it'll all be done for tonight," Foreman said as he did his best to sound empathetic. "Cameron I'll need your help with this one. So – Chase can you hold his hand?"

"I'm fine," Connyr declared softly as he retracted his fingertips rather quickly from Cameron's and shoved them under the thin hospital sheets of the bed. Chase couldn't help but laugh out loud, adjusting the loop of his plaid tie as he feigned a distraught look.

"I don't bite, you know." There was still a chuckle resounding in his tone as he plopped down in the chair beside the bed. "Tell you what. How about I just talk to you while they're doing it and if you need a hand to grasp I'm right here and ready. Sound like a plan?" Connyr simply nodded, the pink muscle of his lower lip quivering as mercilessly as an earthquake roaming the cracks of the dried soil.

"Where are you from?" Connyr asked as he turned his head to focus solely on Chase. Despite his previous intentions of watching the entire process, he felt it best to avert his attention for this particular test. The mattress was hard and uncomfortable like someone had sewn miniature boulders into the seams and he was having difficulty getting settled, anxiously squirming about.

"I know these beds suck but we're going to need you to stay still," Cameron said almost as if reading Connyr's mind.

"Yeah well these may suck but you should try sleeping on a slab of wood for three months in a row on a moving bus," Connyr mumbled with a roll of his eyes, the memory clearly almost painfully humorous to think about. "Not to mention everybody around you smells like the worst mix of ass and feet because the shower always gets clogged about a week in and from then on out you hope and pray for even just five minutes of rain to stop and stand out in so you don't have to go to bed rank another night."

"Australia!" Chase seemed thoroughly put out that Connyr's question for him had been so quickly interrupted by Cameron and a slight scowl appeared on his delicate features.

"Alright Connyr, just keep an eye on Dr.Chase and this will all be over in a minute. You've got a lot of edema around your abdominal area and we just need to take a sample – see if it gives any clues as to what's causing it or even if it's something else altogether," Foreman stated calmly as he picked up on of the shining silver instruments that had been laying on that little table with the blue cloth. Connyr could feel his heart flicker and thrust at the sight of it glinting under the room's fluorescent lights.

"Is there something I should be talking about while he does this?" Connyr stared at Chase helplessly as Cameron began to numb the area where they were about to insert the needle. He wasn't looking, but Connyr could tell it was a lot larger than the ones they had been using before.

"We could talk about your girl if you want," Chase offered blindly, keeping his hands resting in his lap in case Connyr should need one or the other. "How does a famous star like yourself settle down into such a strong monogamous relationship? I mean, I would assume you've got girls, and probably boys too, just throwing themselves at you every chance they get. Isn't that why most people become rock stars? For the chicks and sex?"

Connyr smirked through the grimace that had already begun to form upon the contour of his mouth as Cameron pressed into his side with her gloved fingertips. It felt like someone was rubbing a balloon all over his skin. "Naw, man. That's just not me. The rest of the guys in the band are kind of like that I guess. I mean, I've seen what you're talking about. There's a bunch of people in the business that just aren't in it for the love of music. All they give a fuck about is the paycheck and the cars and seeing which girls they can take home with them and get photographed enough to end up in the tabloids the next day. It's pretty fucking sick, man."

"So you never were like that?"

"I mean, not really, no. I guess I went through a phase when we first hit it big but I think everybody goes through that. You're young; _everybody_ all of a sudden knows your name and people fucking adore you. It goes to your head like nobody's business and you get paranoid that it's not going to last and you just want to stay on top. You become addicted to the high that is that lifestyle. So, yeah, I guess there was a better part of a year I was a spoiled brat but the important thing is to just grow out of it – you know? I mean, I sat down to write the second album and I had jack shit. All my experiences that year were hooking up with random fans, partying until I was drunk off my ass twenty four seven, and buying whatever the hell I felt like. I had _nothing_ to write about. And that's when I was just like _fuck this_, I need to live." He let out a small yelp and readily pressed his face into the top pillow as Foreman stuck the needle into the bloated center of his belly, slowly drawing out clear fluid. "That hurts," Connyr moaned aloud into the down of the pillow. "Oh my God, please take it out."

"Almost done," Foreman murmured comfortingly and within the second, he was. "I just need to apply some pressure to the area for the next minute or so and you'll be set."

"Thanks," Connyr said though it struck him odd that he would be thanking someone that had just caused him a great deal of soreness.

"So when you realized you couldn't write the second album, is that when you and Otley got together?" Chase seemed positively fascinated by it all, his accent thicker than usual which often happened in moments of passionate focus.

"Are you sure you should be a doctor, Chase?" Cameron teased playfully as she grabbed a Styrofoam cup filled with chips of ice that had been sat upon the floor earlier in the day. "Maybe you should go work for one of those magazines you see at the supermarket when you're checking out." Chase ignored her, waiting intently for Connyr to answer.

"It's cool," Connyr dismissed Cameron's remark and continued. "People always want to know the weirdest stuff about me and I have no idea why. I'm probably more boring then half the population of the world and yet everyone still has a million questions. But you guys are doctors, _yeah_, so you have to ask questions so it's cool." He licked his lips as he paused, reaching for one of the ice chips in the cup Cameron was now holding. "No, Otley and I were friends before the band even got together. In fact, we were best friends the entire time and she usually came on tour with us whenever she had the chance. We even got her on the payroll for most of it – just said she was our cook or some shit like that. Honestly, she gets along with everyone in the band so nobody had a problem with having her around and she really does make some incredible food and when you're on the road and living on burgers and fries – the occasional real meal is incredible. She actually had a boyfriend for most of the years we were friends. It was two different ones actually, and then she was just single for awhile. That's when she really started staying with us on the tours – helping out and everything. She'd make sure we had all our shit packed together for the next morning if we got to sleep in the hotel for the night and if we ever had random girls stay over she would always make them breakfast and escort them out without the paparazzi getting shots of them. But, no, Otley and I didn't get together until the band went on our tour overseas. I still remember that by that point I'd put on a lot of weight, probably a little more than I weigh now and the guys had really been getting on my case about it – management too, everybody really. And I'd gone through shit since middle school about my body and even though I was almost ready for a breakdown at that point, the tour was too important to take some time off and get some help. So really I was on my own. And I remember there was this one night in Japan and we'd just finished the show and because of the schedule we didn't have time to stay in a hotel for the night so we had to get right back on the bus and head to the next location. The guys were just _really_ laying it into me that I was eating too much and not looking the part. That whole scene it's just all about who can fit in the skinniest jeans and disguise their faces the most by piling on layer after layer of makeup – especially the guys. That's just not me. I'd be happy doing a show in sweats as long as I was still performing, you know? But so we'd been in each other's faces for way too long and I was just having, like, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before I went to sleep when our bassist fucking snatched it out of my hands and threw it out the window. The worst part was - everyone but Otley just _laughed_. And I just remember being so fucking angry that _just_ as the bus started heading off the main roads I just fucking puked all over the floor. Man, it was horrible."

Cameron looked completely shocked, passing him another ice chip as he swallowed the remainder of the first one.

"Thanks," he whispered as he placed the new one beneath the coral colored sponge that was his tongue. "Anyway, yeah. So of course the bus had to pull over immediately or else it would just get everywhere and if people hadn't been pissed at me before they were now. Everyone was just screaming at me like I was some huge disappointment, like I'd _ruined_ everything. Then everybody started yelling at each other and honestly I think we were all just exhausted. Everyone kind of just wandered off the bus while they were cleaning it up and I couldn't take it and ended up laying down on one of the couches, sobbing like a fucking little girl. I mean there is self hatred and there is _self hatred_. I don't know, man. I just felt like I'd let everyone down just by being myself. And there was Otley, scolding the band as they walked off outside. Then she pranced over, her little bubbly self and quickly knelt down before me, rolled the hem of my shirt up just an inch or so and planted the biggest, sloppiest, silliest kiss smack dab on the middle of my stomach and I mean it was just the sweetest thing I'd ever seen. Looking me dead in the eyes without so much of a flinch she just fucking smiled; didn't say a word, man. Then she curled up on that couch with me, in my arms, and I swear it was like I suddenly knew I had something worth writing about and working for; like finally through all the bullshit there was some ounce of possible truth. I asked her out literally three minutes later while we were still waiting for shit to get cleaned and she ended up thinking I was kidding because we'd been friends for so long. I spent the rest of the night repeatedly begging her until she finally said yes. It took a couple of awkward date-dates, but we were meant to be; I shit you not." Inhaling, Connyr flashed a wan smile at the group of listening doctors before him. "So yeah, that's the story. Kind of lame, I know, but what can you do."

"So - that's a _no_ on banging random girls every night, then?" Chase seemed a bit crestfallen, his dirty blonde bangs hovering against his forehead. Cameron seemed peeved at that question and bristled just slightly. Connyr laughed with embarrassment, clearly surprised he had been so open with a room full of strangers.

"Yeah, Dr.Chase. That's a no."


	5. short but so is happiness

The apartment was dimly lit, illuminated only by a few scattered lamps and their dying bulbs. It almost cast a sort of orange and yellow glow about the rooms, something that was reminiscent of a dream. Empty containers were strewn in destruction, cascading like waterfalls all about the couch and tables – some still containing traces of saliva as though licked clean of any powerful substance they might have once held. Dirty clothes were folded, yet still rumpled, in a small pile on the floor by the kitchen's opening and there was a tiny river of spilt beer that circled around it, the bottle smashed from feet. A smooth orchestration of melodies was pounding softly through the speakers, making the scenery all the more bizarre.

There was a crash, echoing from within the kitchen that was quickly followed by a string of unpleasant words. "Goddamnit," Otley could hear as human hands scrambled about to gather up the pieces of the shattered drinking glass. Wilson's head turned from his position on the couch, his fingertips still drumming silently along the buttons of the remote.

"House did you break another plate?" Grumbling ensued, validating that he had in fact done so.

"Do you need any help in there?" Otley called towards him, tired of standing alone. It wasn't that Wilson hadn't tried to interest her in conversation – but truthfully she didn't know what to say to him. Perhaps her heart was too fraught with worries of Connyr at the moment, wishing she had been allowed to stay the night at the hospital rather than practically begging to be where she was. House emerged, a fading apron decorated with the resemblance of a half naked man flexing vicariously. His brow was deeply furrowed and the side of his left thumb bleeding just slightly.

"No," he muttered crossly as he placed the injured finger to the flesh of his lips, sucking on it softly to clear the blood away. "I'm done cooking, so come eat what's there or be hungry for the night."

"Charming," Otley replied as she reached forward to snatch his thumb from his mouth's tempting embrace. "You shouldn't do that," she whispered as she leaned in. "It's bad for the cut, _doctor_." There was a pause of silence as House glared at the tiny girl, face aflame with a variety of emotions – and all at once Wilson broke into resounding guffaws from behind the two.

"What're you laughing at?" House snapped as he began un-wrapping the apron's strings from around his waist, simply throwing it on the floor in a similarly shaped heap as the rest of the clothes throughout the room.

"Nothing, House. Nothing at all," Wilson assured though his lingering grin made it easy to suspect that "_nothing"_ was not the case at all. Mimicking a cuff to the side of Otley's cheek as one would a champion, he murmured. "Oh, I like her already." Otley sweetly placed an affectionate yet overly saccharine kiss to the warmth of Wilson's neck.

"Thank you," she said with the tiniest of glares which she shot at House. "At least somebody around here doesn't act like they ate glass for breakfast."

"If you ate glass what would you throw up?" House wondered aloud as he began to make his way towards the kitchen where small puffs of steam were already pouring from.

"I don't know and I don't want to know?" Otley was taken aback by the strangeness of his question, her eyes narrowed in utmost and apparent confusion. "Did you want to find out or something because I bet I can find a million people just in this building who would be more than willing to shove a few pieces of sharp objects down your throat." She grinned brightly as she sped past him, stopping only to fake a slight hobble and wince as she cried aloud, "_Woe is me_."

"Blatant mockery," House mumbled as Wilson began to rummage through the kitchen's drawers in search of utensils, the clanking loud and nearly unbearable. "I like you."

"Good than it's unanimous. Now get your crippled ass in gear and get me some fucking food, I'm starving Greg."

"Here," Wilson's voice was muffled and strained under the weight of numerous plates and forks as he handed some off to Otley which she quickly took to ease his burden. "House can you get some glasses for drinks?" House however remained rigid where he stood, mouth slightly agape and a stunned gloss throughout his almost permanently dilated pupils. "What is it now?"

"You _told_ her my _name_?" he gasped incredulously, though in his typical sarcastic manner.

"I saw it on your magazine subscription to whatever monstrosity of porn that's laying out there in your living room _dumb-ass_," Otley spat with a hint of a smirk. "Leave your friend alone, Jesus. The way you pick on him it's almost like you're trying to get into his g-string or something." Wilson coughed and flushed with embarrassment.

"I don't wear g-strings," he piped up hastily as he cleared his throat once more.

"No, he can't. He doesn't have enough of an ass to pull the look off," House murmured without so much as a bat of an eyelash as he reached for the ladle atop the counter. Wilson, now deathly mute, held the plates before the simmering pot of food and waited as House scooped portions onto each dish until all had been served.

"Here you go," Wilson muttered as he placed one of the plates in Otley's grasp as he began to walk away.

"Wilson we were just playing around with you, where the hell are you going?" Wilson glanced over his shoulder as he pried the refrigerator door open with one hand, the tips of his ears still a visible pink.

"To get a beer, _and lots of it_."

(sorry it's so short, more soon.)


	6. only scenesters have sleepovers

The sheets of the bed felt like the scales of fish, hell they even smelled of salt water and the lusty dreams of fisherman. Each one rose and crumbled as though drifting along with the tide and House lay upon those very nautical sheets, eyes dull and shiftless as he stared up at the ceiling. All that stared back was white bits of plaster and the slight change of the moon's light as it bounced in streaky patterns around the room. Every few moments he would grasp the fabric between his fingertips, scrambling those scales so tightly in his fists that he pretended that they would shatter at any given moment. He just had to relent, he had to let go – but he didn't want to. He wanted to wait until the last possible second; to squeeze all life out of their shape and form and just as they would fall to crack – he would save them, release them from his reddening fingertips and be praised for his judgment.

Half finished bottles of whiskey and cheap beer were scattered throughout the bedroom, pieces of broken glass leaving almost a path towards the kitchen from where he had dragged himself after the evening grew stale. He got bored of everything eventually, wandering off into his own drunken worlds – worlds where his damned leg didn't hurt so damned badly. That was pretty much his only fantasy left these days, the one thing that taunted him in his sleep as he spent the nights running and galloping about; only to wake to excruciating hurt and the need for a cane.

The clock at his bedside shone brightly, keeping his attention alert and yet unfocused all the same. He hadn't slept, he couldn't sleep. The sleepy whistles of breathing of both Wilson and Otley coming from the living room had kept him up.

"No, no it's not their fault. You kept yourself up you moron," he muttered to himself in a soft whisper, frustrated and woozy. As he shifted his weight against the sheets of imaginary scales and other aquatic nonsense, he couldn't help but replay the evening back and forth, back and forth, back and forth from every inch of his brain to the other.

"You're a sick person," Otley had playfully teased him as the three drunken souls had sat on the floor with a deck of cards, making the game up as they went along. So far, Wilson had been winning. She came across as surprisingly lucid despite practically polishing off most of what had been in the fridge, her thirst second only to House's.

"He is," Wilson had mumbled in agreement with an amused smirk as he laid his ace of spades down on top of the messy pile. "King me," he'd shouted with delight as he held his hand outstretched.

"Of course your majesty," Otley had replied with a haughty English accent, promptly refilling his glass of wine until the alcohol was literally dripping like a fountain onto the carpet below.

"At least my name isn't Otley," House had spat back. Drinking shortened his senses, made him slower. He had seemed to find himself rather hilarious at the moment, containing his own snickers from behind the rounded opening of a bottle of purple tinted tequila. "I mean, what the hell? Were your parents stoned when they named you? It sounds like a brand of tampons." His voiced had rose in pitch as he took another swig of his bottle. "Heavy flow, girls? Try the new Otley Supers. They're fucking fantastic."

"Otley's my last name dumb ass," she had retorted with a curled upper lip as she doled out two cards from her clutches, exchanging them with the ones Wilson had put down just moments ago. "I just hate to go by Virginia because everyone calls me Ginny and I just can't stand it. Especially since that Harry fucking Potter shit came out. I haven't read that shit, I don't know what a Hogwarts is or why everyone feels the need to ask me if I like it there. It's not cute and I can't stand it."

"Do you _know_ Harry Potter?" Wilson's eyes opened incredulously as he had stared at her like an excited little child, squirming all the while.

"I find it hard to believe that a brilliant doctor would be asking me that," Otley had replied uncomfortably as she snatched House's bottle of liquor from his fingertips, placing it on the floor. "You've had enough." House quickly grabbed the bottle back, lifting it to his lips to make a gaudy show of drinking the rest.

"Well this brilliant doctor is trashed," Wilson mumbled as he spread his cards in front of him, staring at them as though he wanted to analyze each possible move he could make.

"No kidding," Otley had grinned as she gave his shoulder a light squeeze of affection. "Your cards are upside down sweet pea. You're just looking at the back now. Why don't you flip them over?"

"You're a genius," Wilson had shouted with elation as he did as Otley had suggested, gasping as each card's face suddenly became visible to his unsteady and glazed eyes. "It's like you know everything. Are you sure you're not a demon or something? I don't think House deserves to be killed by a demon, I mean he's an ass and all but if you were sent here or something to kill House he might not like it." His voice had trailed off as he continued to drunkenly babble aloud, his brow furrowing in intense yet distanced concentration.

"And this is why we don't let the good doctor drink most of the time," House had stated with a bit of a knowing smile. The tequila now drained from the bottle and coursing through his system, he threw the glass gently down the hall and listened as it rolled over each plank of wood and passing potential obstacles.

And now as House struggled between his sheets, the pillow beneath his leg feeling as though a rock at the present moment; each tendon in his knee aching and throbbing – now he couldn't stop hearing it all. Perhaps the apartment was too silent. Instead of his sneakers at the bed's end where the floor met, he kept seeing her lips curve into a look that dabbled between amused and petrified. It was odd to him, someone that lived such a bizarre and out of control lifestyle would find the conversations and events of the evening to be shocking. She was among gorillas on those tours, among boys who never had to grow up or abide to anyone's word beneath the blue open sky. There was no such thing as rules. There was no such thing as normal. Fame was the world that everyone dreamt of, but no amount of dreams could prepare for the startling truth that lies ahead.

Though, well aware it was merely a side effect of the incredible intoxication he felt at the moment, House stared in complete and utter awe as the laces of his shoes melted away into the form of her face. She didn't blink, she didn't move, she didn't do anything at all but stare – and he stared right back, his thoughts once more drifting back to the card game.

"Ginny Binny," House had derided in a bland tone. "Can you pass the frozen waffles?" She had, but with a look of utmost disgust upon her face which he was unsure if it had been due to his choice of nutrition or use of a dreaded nickname.

"I seriously doubt some halfway de-frosted bread is going to keep you from puking up everything you just drank by morning. But sure go ahead, keep telling yourself it'll help," she had said with a shrug as Wilson's eyes fluttered shut from where he was sitting. "Maybe you should lie down."

"No I'm fine," he had argued though truly too drunk to do so as his speech slurred and his eyes closed once more with a weighted yawn and tiny hiccup.

"Here," Otley had hoisted herself from the floor, her cards splaying in all directions as they fell from her lap while she loaded a few of the couches smaller pillows into her delicate arms. "C'mere and lay down at least." She scattered them about the floor, creating a makeshift bed as Wilson unsteadily made his way over. Lowering himself onto his side, he had curled his legs slightly against his chest as his head pressed into the pillow. There was a creak from the closet door as Otley carefully opened it, pulling out a few of House's warmer jackets. "And to keep you warm," she had muttered as she spread them over Wilson's frame, making sure that he was covered somehow from the neck down. "You'll come and wake House or me if you need us, right?" Wilson, however, had simply snored.

She had helped House limp to bed and disappeared to fall asleep herself, perhaps in the bathtub or on the couch he wasn't sure which. Apparently she had no trouble sleeping wherever as long as she was never alone. So here he lay, practically sweating alcohol from his pores as he tossed and turned, loopy and just barely aware that someone had stepped into his bedroom as his thoughts had been drifting. Peering towards the door, House saw a small figure looking scared and lonely as she clutched a beaten and worn doll shaped like a mermaid against her chest.

"Alright. Come here," House grumbled as though it were an inconvenience as he slid over to make room in the bed. There were a few moments of shuffling about and then everything was once again still. He could feel the stuffed fingertips of the doll pressing against his neck, as well as the occasional warmth of her breath as she slipped her tiny arms around his waist and pressed a grateful kiss along the side of his mouth.

"Can I lie on your shoulder?" she asked in the quietest of voices, barely impeding the silence of the room.

"Sure, one second." House paused as he felt the bare skin of her legs curl against his own, entwining in a way that he had only ever slept before with one person. His mind was already muddied and thick from the evening's drinks and unable to settle as even the slightest brush of her toes against his own epidermis sent trillions of signals pulsating and rocketing throughout his body, shaking him in a frightening yet enticing way. Jolts were literally pumping about from organ to organ, second to second as her small coos of comfort rattled his composure and nervous system, turning him into an anxious little child who was in way over his head.

"Are you okay?" Otley inquired as she watched him curiously. "You're not feeling sick now are you? I hate when people throw up on me while I sleep." Her nose wrinkled visbily.

Speechless, and unsure of what to say House merely nodded. "Yeah – yeah that's it. I just felt sick. I'm okay now, I think." And with a wan smile and shaky sigh, he turned to his side and wrapped a cautious arm around the petite creature that had come to slumber and dream the night away by his side.

"I told you those frozen waffles wouldn't help," she murmured with a bit of bratty tone, her eyes glancing up at him momentarily as she grinned. She yawned softly, her lashes wavering and with a gentle sigh she curled against his shoulder blade and closed her eyes. "I _told_ you."


	7. the body gives away the bluff

"House, go home. You're hung over." Cuddy's arms were folded across her vaguely exposed chest as she stared down at the doctor crumpled over the mess of forms and video games upon his desk. There were signs of bleary exhaustion along the lines and dark circles beneath his eyes as he glanced briefly up at the booming voice coming from his supervisor.

"I'm not hung over," he mumbled unconvincingly. "Being hung over requires that one would drink too much for your body to handle."

"So what do you suppose is the reason for your charming and ecstatic presence here at Princeton Plainsboro today?" Cuddy snapped curtly as the corners of her lips curled into the gentlest of smirks. There was something utterly satisfying about having the upper hand in any situation with him – moments like these were few and far between.

"My leg just hurts," House lied while once more looking up from his makeshift pillow of patient files and ripped out pictures of comic books, all wrapped together with a softening touch of gauze and medical tape. The door to his office gave a slight screech and he winced as Wilson brushed through, shouldering the door for enough room to pass through as he juggled a full arm's load of steaming coffee cups.

"Don't listen to him," Wilson started as he quickly scuttled up behind Cuddy as though he was afraid his small frame of absence had been enough for House to fabricate anything on either of their behalves. "Whatever he is saying to you is a dirty, shameless lie. By the way here," he remembered as he handed Cuddy the second cup of caffeine, sipping on his own momentarily. Gasping he pulled the Styrofoam cup away in alarm as he grunted, "Damn, that's hot."

"Thanks for getting me one?" House said in droll sarcasm as he slouched further into his seat, fingertips massaging his temples in slow circular motions. Wilson paid him no attention.

"This asshole wakes me up this morning and tells me that he's still too drunk to drive and asks if I can give him a ride to work. Being a nice friend – House, notice how I use that word? Try and look it up in the dictionary if you get a break from your nasty little migraine in the corner over there. Anyway, being a nice friend I agree and sure enough he was just horribly hung over and didn't want to risk vomiting on his motorcycle because that would require him to _clean_ it. A novel idea, I know. No, instead he opts to throw up in my car not once but twice and then have the gall to suggest he was simply carsick from my driving and therefore I was the one who had to pay to get it washed and dried."

Cuddy blanched as she shot House a sterile glance. "I hope he told you to get down on your hands and knees and clean it your damn self." House prepared to retort but was caught off guard by a yawn, swallowing his words as he concealed it behind the palm of his slightly trembling hand.

"See? I'm not hung over. I'm just tired," he grumbled as he grasped the handle of his cane firmly, pushing himself upwards to stand.

"Yeah well it must've been a long sleepless night," Wilson muttered snidely as his shoulders tensed and tightened with apparent frustration. House's pale blue eyes flickered intensely as he froze, slightly taken aback by the tone in his best friend's voice. He had done worse than empty the contents of his drunken stomach in Wilson's car, and yet this was the first time that his antics had seemed to ruffle the kinder doctor's feathers. Even the length of his jaw was clenched as though he was refraining from honestly and truly spilling just how he felt.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" House asked with slapdash confusion.

Wilson's face formed into something rather unpleasant, an obvious change from the norm. His eyes slit sharply as he retorted fiercely. "I'm just saying how hard it must've been for you to sleep next to a beautiful girl and not be able to touch her. I'd be surprised if you didn't spend the entire night carelessly trying to cop a feel the minute she was out cold." House's brow rose in astonishment, barely able to believe the words that were coming from his friend.

"You're kidding, right? Is he serious?" House turned to Cuddy, her expression reflecting that of one who had just had a thousand bricks dropped upon her thoughts.

"You paid a hooker to sleep next to you? I know you're lonely but I never expected," Cuddy babbled as her cheeks flushed in fright that her embarrassment was beginning to show.

"She wasn't a hooker," House shouted adamantly as he struck the floor beneath him with the bottom of his cane for emphasis, starting to wonder if he had stumbled into a drunken dream. "She wasn't a hooker," he repeated a bit gentler as his fingertips curled along one another as his surrounding began to spot and sparkle with black dots around his line of vision. Perhaps it was merely a dream after all, things were getting fuzzy enough. "My patient's girlfriend wanted a place to stay and asked to stay with me. I didn't know she was going to come into my bed, alright?"

"Oh my God, I'm going to get sued," Cuddy moaned aloud as she buried her face deep within her palms, her cup of coffee sloshing as it rested along the bridge of her nose.

"It's not illegal," House snapped as he eased himself back into the chair. Things were spinning too quickly now to be upright. Balance was becoming difficult.

"No, but it's highly unethical," Cuddy shot back just as frantically as she lifted her head. Her eyes were burning with a hint of rage and another emotion that House couldn't place at that particular moment.

"I didn't fucking ask her to sleep with me, or next to me however you want to call it. She brought her own drunken ass into the bed by her own damn self. What are you? Jealous?" House paused, staring in silence as he waited for an answer.

Caught off guard, Cuddy stumbled childishly around syllables and thought. "… no," she replied with a sudden look of distaste as though the very thought appalled her. "No," she stated once more. House's jaw fell slightly agape as recognition dawned within his countenance.

"You are," he whispered with perverse amusement. "You're insanely jealous right now. Look at you. You're like a piñata that's had enough goes and with one more whap of the stick – you'll pop like those marvelous breasts squeezed too tightly into what you're trying to pass for office attire."

"You're a delusional idiot," Cuddy hissed scathingly as she turned on her heels and quickly stormed out of the room, the door slamming profusely behind her.

House flinched and the sudden movement shook his fingertips in a series of tiny tremors. Heaving a tired sigh he once more rested his head upon his lumpy pillow of paper and gauze, his back arching as he slumped against the smooth wooden surface of the desk. It felt cool against his cheek which was still burning from the alcohol the night before. "So what's the deal? Are you jealous too or just really, really pissed off that I hurled in your sweet ride?" he mumbled in a decibel so airy, he could barely be heard. Wilson, too, let out a heavy sigh.

"No, and no. I'm sorry, I'm just in a bad mood due to the pounding in my head that won't go away even with caffeine and the healthy limit of aspirin."

"I hear you on that one," House smiled faintly into the desk, a hint of his reflection mirroring his actions back up at him. "I didn't mean to piss Cuddy off. Not yet at least. I try to hold the joy of her backside walking away from me for a late afternoon breather."

"I know. You were just being you," Wilson replied with understanding. There was a moment of quiet as he bit into the fleshy muscle of his bottom lip, the only sound audible left being the shortened inhalations from the chair where House was curled up. "You didn't – _do_ anything did you?"

"What're you talking about?" House didn't bother to raise his head, the light was irritating his eyes all of a sudden and the dim illuminations from the hallway outside his door was enough to make him scream.

"With _her_. You didn't do anything did you? You know, last night when she was in _your bed_." Wilson's eyebrow lifted as he motioned obviously with his hands, as though the casual puppetry of his fingertips would jostle House's current sluggish state of memory.

"_You're_ not jealous are you?" House repeated with perceptible suspicion. It wasn't odd for Wilson to be concerned, but there was a tinny pitch to the words he was uttering and it just seemed strange to him.

"Not in the least," Wilson reassured. "I just want to make sure you didn't just get yourself in a situation that you can't pull yourself out of. You don't want to piss off people with that much access to any single news and broadcasting outlet across the world. All he has to do is suspect you fooled around with his girl while she was drunk and scared and the next thing you know they're hearing him shit-talk you all the way in Bolivia and your days of being that heroic doctor that saves the day just before the lights go out – goes out the window."

The door opened as Cameron and Chase breezed through, charts in their clutches as worried looks appeared upon both their faces.

"What's the matter?" House inquired as he eyed the two with caution, squinting to strain the light from penetrating his lashes.

"I could ask the same," Chase snorted with a surprised grin. "What'd you do last night? Break out a keg with the old frat buddies?" He snickered at himself, clearly finding himself rather clever.

Cameron, however, leapt into concern immediately as she rushed over to his side. "Have you had enough water? You need to stay hydrated. You don't have a fever do you? You could have alcohol poisoning. Have you been throwing up? Did you eat anything? Do you want anything to eat?" She began fishing around in her lab coat's pockets for a thermometer as she pelted him with a breathless storm of inane questions that only furthered his headache. House, though annoyed at Cameron's sudden urge to mother him and the bizarrely sexual way she was stroking his hand as though the thought of him being in need of her made her feel more turned on than any oiled up man with muscles in a thong could – he found himself rather amused by the jealous flare that had ignited in Chase's expression. It was no secret to just about anyone in the hospital who had ears that the two were still cavorting about with their supposedly secret sexual escapades throughout the locked closets and empty bathroom stalls. Keeping silent however, Chase merely tucked a loose strand of blonde hair safely away from his eyes though it was perfectly clear to everyone in the room besides Cameron that he was steaming where he stood.

"Cameron, he's just hung over. I'm sure he'll survive," Wilson said with a twinge of exasperation at her dramatic display of panic and care. "My car, on the other hand-," he was cut off however by the sudden crash as House's cane slammed upon the floor, his body contorting in small spasms as he began to vomit on the carpet beneath the hollowed out space of his desk. Everyone in the room went perfectly quiet, not a one moving.

"I _hate _this," House mumbled hoarsely between gasps of air that led to nothing more than a series of dry heaves and a wrenching bout of gags that left Chase pale and running for the door as Cameron followed her clandestine beau with a permeable look of concern gracing her painted lips. "Oh my god - I _hate, hate, fucking hate, hate it_," he repeated as he shuddered at the sensation of wetness that was seeping through his shirt as a trail of sick dripped with saliva down his chin. Wilson winced at the sight but quickly grabbed the few tissues he had stuffed in his back pocket and handed them over to his friend.

"For the record I am not jealous," rang the considerably calmer yet still bitter voice of Cuddy as she stomped back into the office only to stop dead in her tracks. "What the hell happened?"

"Looks like my car isn't the only thing that needs to be cleaned," Wilson joked lightly as House swabbed the tissue along the shape of his mouth, cleaning himself the best that he could.

"Great," Cuddy drawled cheerlessly. "I told you to go home and what do you do? You stay here, accuse me of outrageous things, destroy Wilson's private property, cost me a fortune for the carpet cleaners that are going to need to come now, and nearly give me a heart attack by insinuating that you slept with your patient's girlfriend. You know, most people are still asleep right now. Can't you go be one of those people? And is that – are you _crying_?"

House shook his head slowly. "My eyes water when I throw up." Yet the moisture was distinct, brimming at the corners and about to rupture. Cuddy seemed to soften at the sight of his obvious discomfort. She had never seen him so disheveled, even when he was at his lowest – no, out of all the moments this was lower than any that had come before.

"Let me go get you another shirt," Wilson offered hesitantly. "I've got a spare in my office in case something ever happens."

"Or you forget to get dressed," Cuddy supplied quickly though immediately rolling her eyes at her own statement. "Well _that_ was a stupid thought."

"I'll forget you said it," Wilson assured her with a boyish smile. Their pleasantries were once more interrupted as House crumbled lower towards the floor, his stomach clearly straining to vomit the remainder of what lay within it but having difficulty doing so. Both Cuddy and Wilson quickly surrounded him as Wilson slid his hand reassuringly up and down his arching back as Cuddy gave his arm an encouraging squeeze and a soft peck atop his head.

"James, can you please take him home?" Wilson nodded, too drained to remain frustrated with the situation as he continued to stroke the curved back of his friend despite the silence that now came from him as the retching had subsided. He sighed as he glanced down at House, who was now staring off blithely into the space around his feet as clear condensation streamed from between each brown lash along the outline of his pallid blue eyes. It was clear that the man who could take care of anything, any problem he faced – could not take care of himself this morning.

"Yeah. Yeah, I got it. Just get me some more tissues, okay?"

"Okay." She paused. "Are you sure he's just hung over? You're sure nothing happened with that girl? You know better than anyone else how much House likes to mask the real problems in his life with some physical ailment that has nothing to do with what's actually going on."

"Honestly? I have no idea." Cuddy sighed.

"Well when he's coherent make sure you tell him he needs to sort whatever the hell this is out. I expect my diagnostician ready and able early tomorrow morning with all kinds of words of hope and wisdom for his patient." She gave House's shoulder a slight pat. "And I expect lots and lots of not having law suits. Understand?" House waved the bare tips of his fingers in acknowledgement and Cuddy gave a brisk nod. "Good, then. _Good_."


	8. a man strolled in whistling

"Chase, what the hell?" Cameron rushed after the pale doctor through the doors of the men's lavatory, excusing herself to an old gentleman who happened to be on his way out. Clearly the scene that had just taken place in House's office had upset him for he quickly scurried to the closest urinal, trembling hands sliding against the porcelain for stability as he fell to his bottom and gagged tumultuously over the pine scented freshener that someone must've deposited there earlier that morning. Cameron rolled her eyes and with tightly pursed lips marched over towards her hunched co-worker. "Are you serious? You're a doctor you _idiot_. I've seen you eat half a pizza after poking around in some woman's brain for five hours. But watching House's hung-over expedition with his breakfast and the carpet is what really gets your stomach pumping?"

"You're mocking me," Chase mumbled in a defiantly bitter but low tone as he craned his neck an inch or two to look up at her. Cameron flashed a tiny smug grin as she folded her arms across her chest. It wasn't often she was the one on the giving end of the playful teasing and ridicules that trickled throughout the hospital daily. In fact she was almost always the one receiving it for being too _nice_, or perhaps caring just too darn much.

"You're damn right I am. Our patient's in his room right now most likely vomiting the Jell-o the nurses snuck in for him last night in hopes he would pose with them for a picture. If you walk in there and he's blowing purple gelatinous chunks everywhere, are you really going to be rushing out the minute you step in only to be found whimpering like a twelve year old girl over a urinal?"

"I wasn't _whimpering_," Chase snapped haughtily. Clearly, with his mind no longer focused on what had just taken place, he stood arrogantly; no longer queasy. A few inches taller than she, Chase stared down at Cameron with a slight burn beneath his retinas. He had never seen such a side of her, in fact he honestly had never thought that one could ever exist. She was basically all that was good with the world wrapped into a beautiful creature. "_Or perhaps she's what I want to believe is good_," he suddenly found himself thinking as he froze at the sight of still standing self-righteousness.

"Oh, really? Then what was going on?" Cameron's brow arched. The main door swung wide open, a man in his mid forties striding through with a jaunty left step as he whistled a soft tune. He had clearly seen her, though was obviously either too in necessity of the facilities to leave or just really did not care. "Because if I'm not mistaken, running out of the room like a little girl was exactly what you just did. It's not professional and it's not like you. If you go into Connyr's room and do the same damn thing he's going to have a nervous breakdown. He already _clearly_ lacks what some people refer to as _self esteem_ and I don't want you knocking down whatever left he's been trying to build up."

"What does me leaving the room have anything to do with self esteem?" Chase asked with exasperation. "That makes absolutely no sense. It's not like I'm going to run out and call him a fat cow like House. I mean you're the one that nearly made him shit a brick when you got him that large bed. He thought you wanted to tag him and put him in some twisted traveling carnival as the 'human-hippopotamus attraction' just ask him. He cried about it all night to the nurses."

"Maybe the term I was looking for was self conscious," Cameron began slowly as though it took all her strength to admit she might've been wrong. "He's self conscious."

"No shit," Chase snorted. There was a flush of water and the whistling man reappeared from behind the last stall's door, still hopping joyously in a playful skip towards the sink as if lost in some beautiful orchestral piece that only he could hear.

"Forget it. None of that matters," she interrupted hastily as the water from the sink splashed about noisily. "What's this really about?"

"_You_ tell _me_!" Chase shouted slowly as if trying to get her to comprehend his utmost confusion for the whole situation that had sprung up around them. "All I know is that I happen to get the minutest of bellyaches while watching House spew across the floor and you go off on me like a tyrant. It was something fleeting and yet you've managed to drag it out for the past ten minutes."

"Well _it_ – it just isn't like you," Cameron argued feebly as her smirk began to fall into a deflated pout, the corners of her smile sagging with defeat.

"Does it matter? I mean, I'm surprised you care the way you had your hands all over House in there. I swear you must get off on that," he muttered snidely.

"_Excuse me_?" Cameron's voice had fallen deathly low. It was a sign of danger for all; her eyes slitting with a disturbed look as she ran her tongue across the front of her teeth.

"You love it. You love when you're taking care of someone, it's like your very own personal blue pill. I honestly believe that had the rest of us not been in there and you had found House all by your little lonesome you would've removed your pants and promised him a real fun way to hop on the road to feeling better. You're like the feel-good amusement park ride and if you pity someone enough you'll let them on for a spin. You love it; I _honestly _think you fucking love it." Chase voice was straight and clean though his hands were shaking horrifically as he spouted the foul thoughts from his lips, unable to watch as saline started to dribble from her moistening eyes. "And House? Oh you see him as some kind of trophy. He's so stubborn and he's so damaged that if only you could help him and show him all along what a little love and care can do for his life, then you'll make this world a better place."

Cameron opened her mouth to intervene but Chase quickly cut her off, his voice at last beginning to crack. "Well let me tell you something. Maybe you should stop giving such a damn about someone who clearly doesn't know what giving a damn is. Do you really think he's had such a horrible life? No, he chooses to make his life horrible. But I suppose that's what really turns you to him, isn't it? You want to change his way of thinking; change him completely. I've spent years trying to distance myself and the way I am from a childhood that consisted of nothing but boozing, lies, and absolute terror from a mom that was so drunk she sometimes forgot I was her son. Just because I'm not the sour asshole that House is doesn't mean that I'm not just as '_damaged_' as him. I just hate that to get you to like me, and I mean really like me – I have to hate everything I've _finally_ learned to be okay with."

And leaving Cameron there, speechless, Chase walked out of the bathroom side by side with the stranger who was still whistling his melody happily for everyone to hear.


End file.
